


What's My Age Again?

by MistressPandora



Series: The Metallicar Soundtrack [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comedy, Crack, Drabble, Gen, Humor, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 23:13:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9464753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressPandora/pseuds/MistressPandora
Summary: Season 11 spoilers. Dean and Sam get into another prank war, but this time Lucifer is in the bunker. Naturally, the devil can't resist a little fun.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Blink 182's ["What's My Age Again?"](https://youtu.be/kmO6kcCww-U)

Sam stomped out of the shower room clasping a towel around his waist with one hand and gripping a bar of soap in the other. “Dean!” he roared, wet hair dripping into his eyes. “Dean, get your ass out here!”

Dean appeared from the direction of the kitchen, dressed comfortably in his bathrobe and slippers, steaming mug of coffee in his hand. He looked better rested than usual and though his lips were pursed nonchalantly as he sipped his coffee, his eyes wrinkled just the tiniest bit with mischief. Sam barely suppressed the urge to punch him in his face. “What? Can’t a man get his coffee in peace?”

Sam shot his brother what felt like an awfully impressive death-glare. “Cut the crap, Dean. Did you put bullion cubes in the shower head?”

Dean straightened his shoulders and had the audacity to look insulted. “Why, Sammy, frankly I am hurt. Why would you even ask such a thing?”

“Because I washed my hair and now it smells like salty beef, Dean!”

Coffee sputtered from Dean’s mouth and he winced when some of the hot liquid hit his chin. “And I don’t even want to know why you had nail polish or what in God’s name possessed you to paint the entire fucking bar of soap.” Dean choked back a laugh and Sam angled a finger at him. “Just remember that you started this,” he warned and stalked away toward his bedroom, dropping the bar of soap into Dean's coffee with a plop as he passed.

A door opened as Sam walked by and Lucifer, from Castiel’s vessel, leaned against the doorway with his hands clasped in front of him and a gleeful look on his face. “Is that discord I hear?”

“Shut up, Lucifer,” Sam grumbled.

Lucifer wrinkled Cas’s nose. “Why do you smell like beef?”

Sam refused to dignify that with a response, only growling under his breath. He carefully reminded himself that a holy conflagration with Lucifer as ground zero would also kill Castiel and that would be wrong.

 

***

 

Dean spent the entirety of the day on alert for Sam’s revenge. He carefully inspected his food before he ate it, looked around corners before he continued down the hall, examined doors for foul play before walking through. He barely saw Sam after the great beef stew shower showdown, but Dean knew his brother was just biding his time. When Dean awoke the next morning, he almost slugged right out of bed as usual, remembering to be wary moments before his feet hit the floor. He paused, forcing his brain into alertness in order to check for sabotage. He relaxed a bit when he noticed that the door was still locked.

Dean shuffled to the sink on the wall, running the tap and splashing cool water onto his face. He patted his face dry with the ancient but soft towel then squirted some toothpaste on his toothbrush. With the water turned off Dean tried to think like the Moose, hoping to anticipate his strike. Only a handful of seconds passed before Dean’s gums began to burn terribly. At first he thought maybe he’d let the tap get too hot, but then he realized he’d only briefly run his brush under cold water. Pulling the foamy toothbrush from his mouth he examined it, expecting to see blood and rather surprised when he didn’t. He bared his teeth at his reflection, looking for anything unusual, but came up blank. As he continued to brush, the burning sensation got worse, then downright painful. Sweat began to bead on his neck and at his temples as he spit furiously, desperate to get what he was increasingly certain was pepper-tainted toothpaste out of his mouth. Rinsing with water did nothing. If anything the burning grew worse. Dean was nearly in a pain-fueled panic as he grappled at the door handle to unlock it. He needed milk. Or a banana. Anything to neutralize the capsaicin.

When he finally got the door opened he barreled head-long into his brother who barely budged. He was wearing a self-satisfied smirk on his big dumb face. “What’s the matter, Dean? Problems with your toothpaste?” He dangled a bottle of ghost pepper sauce in front of Dean’s face with one hand and a syringe in the other. “I told you to remember that you started this. We’re out of milk, by the way.”

Dean glared up at his brother. “When? How?” he hissed, trying to suck and blow cool air into his mouth, which was of course useless and just made him look like a constipated fish.

Sam’s grin widened. “Early this morning, before my run,” he answered, pulling his lock-pick set out of his back pocket.

“Damn it, Sam, it feels like I gave Satan a blowjob. It hurts!” Dean continued to gulp in cool air to no avail, tears blurring his vision.

A somewhat familiar gravelly chuckle that was just not quite right came around the corner. The face, body, and trench coat were all familiar but the blue eyes grinning at Dean were certainly not his friend’s. “That’s just a terrible choice of words, Dean-o.”

Hit with a fresh wave of inferno, all Dean could do was shoot Lucifer a withering glare and the bird.

Sam’s stupid grin didn’t even falter on his stupid face. “And when did you go from yelling through nightmares to moaning Cas’s name in your sleep?”

Dean felt the blood drain right out of his face, except for inside his mouth, which still burnt with the fury of a thousand suns. “What?” he uttered in a considerably manly squeak. “What’d I say?” Sam just turned and sauntered off down the hallway. Dean’s only consolation was that his brother still smelled a little like beef.

Lucifer just laughed in Castiel’s voice, arms crossed over his chest and shoulders at an easy angle. He shook his head. “Aw, you guys are cute.”

Dean grumbled and swiped at the tears in his eyes as he stalked toward the kitchen.

 

***

 

It was his own growling stomach that reminded Sam he hadn’t eaten for most of the day, buried as he was in one of the bunker’s file rooms. After the satisfaction of seeing tears streaming down his brother’s beet-red face, Sam sequestered himself down here to catalog more of the extensive Men of Letters’ research. He often enjoyed spending the odd day between cases, listening to something other than Dean’s same five cassettes through his earbuds, plunging into the wealth of knowledge and pulling up jewels by the handful. Sam often found himself getting into such a flow state that he would forget to eat. Part of him knew it was probably more than a little foolish to be down here listening to music with Dean on the prowl, but with the conflict with Amarra in a stalemate, Sam would go stir crazy if he didn’t keep busy. Also, it was a great way to avoid Lucifer who just seemed to appear at the most inopportune moments, grinning from behind Castiel’s face. Sam shuddered at the thought. Just unnerving.

He closed his laptop and the file drawer he’d just completed. Pulling his earbuds out of his ears, Sam wound the cable around his fingers carefully before sliding them into his pocket and headed for the door. He dipped his head to the side a little has he gingerly pushed the door open, on the lookout for Dean and his next prank. The hallway was empty of brothers and their sabotage, so Sam straightened and let the door open fully.

His hand was still on the door, sliding around the side of the wood, poised to swing it shut behind him. A loud bang jolted Sam out of his sense of security and he crouched, left hand coming up to ward off an attack, right hand going for the knife in his boot. His eyes darted around him, looking for the source of the shot, landing on the bottom of the door he’d just closed. Taped to it was a burst balloon, light just barely reflecting off a small nail in the wall behind the door. Sam scowled at Dean’s sophomoric sense of humor and rose again.

The bathroom door was similarly sabotaged. Sam managed to stay upright this time, but he still flinched and his heart pounded violently. After a few deep breaths, he was calm enough to continue on his mission. When he sat down on the toilet, two loud snaps sent him jumping. “Jesus fuck!” he shouted. Standing so quickly that he nearly tripped, Sam turned and lifted the toilet seat. Under it were the paper wrappers of two poppers, the kind of thing small children throw on the ground on the Fourth of July. They make an annoying snapping sound but are otherwise completely harmless. Unless, of course, your brother is a sadistic bastard who balances them under toilet seats with the grace and precision of an evil Dalai Lama.

Sam washed his hands in the sink, splashing a little cold water on his face to calm himself down. He rolled as much of the tension out of his shoulders as he could, and opened the door carefully, eyes darting around the hallway as he made his way to the kitchen.

He pulled eggs and veggies from the refrigerator and shut the door with his hip. There were more poppers taped to the inside of the fridge door. When they snapped, Sam only managed to hang onto the totally non-breakable bag of spinach because of freaking course. He surveyed the eggy carnage on the floor, chest heaving to catch his breath in equal parts frustration and fright. “Dean!” he shouted into the otherwise silent bunker.

No answer.

Growling and grumbling about waste and immaturity, Sam knelt to gather up the smashed eggs and tomatoes. Two eggs managed to escape with cracks but mostly intact, so not a total loss. He deposited the survivors on the counter near the stove and wiped up most of the yolk and tomato squish with a paper towel. He’d make Dean mop the kitchen later. Possibly with his tongue. Mmm, salmonella.

When Sam sat down at a table with his unintentionally abbreviated omelet, four more poppers went off under the chair legs. He just closed his eyes tightly and fought to slow his heartbeat.

 

***

 

Lucifer found Sam in the library a few hours later, looking precisely like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs occupied by caffeinated six-year-olds. He suppressed a smirk--mostly--as he leaned against the bookcase behind Sam. “Sammy--” he began.

Sam shouted and jumped, spinning out of his chair so fast he fell to the ground in a heap of incredibly tense shoulders and long limbs. “Lucifer!” he breathed, sucking in air.

“Why, Sammy,” he continued. “Is mean old Dean--wait. Are you… crying?” The smirk crept back to Lucifer’s lips.

The hunter climbed back into his chair slowly, tensing for an attack at every minute movement. He ran his hands through his hair and over his face. The cavern of his hands over his nose just amplified the sound of an undignified sniffle. “No!”

Lucifer bent over Sam, creeping well into his personal space, arms crossed over his chest. “You are!”

“Yes, okay, are you happy?” Sam snapped. “Dean’s hidden balloons and minor explosives all over the friggin’ bunker and I keep popping and setting them off. As soon as I calm down from one I find six more and my nerves are fucking shot!” Sam leaned forward to rest his forearms on his knees and forced himself to take deep breaths which did absolutely nothing at this point. “And I survived your torture, so that’s saying something.”

Lucifer pouted, eyes narrow and lower lip stuck out. “That hurts, Sam.”

Eyes still on the floor, Sam held up a hand, palm out to halt anything else Lucifer had to say. “Just… just shut up.”

 

***

 

The next morning, Dean scuffed into the kitchen to make coffee. He yawned as he reached for the carafe but paused with his hand in the air. The coffee maker had been surrounded by literally dozens of full water glasses on the counter. They were all upside down. As in Niagra falls if he tried to move them.

Dean leaned away from the counter like the glasses were going to attack him. “Sam!” he called.

His brother came into the kitchen dressed in an old T-shirt and pajama pants. “Dude, why are you yelling?”

Dean flicked a hand at the water glasses and glared at Sam. “How in the hell did you do this?”

“What are you--” Sam fell silent, mouth hanging open. “Uh. I didn’t.”

Dean turned to face his brother. “Really? That’s what you’re going with?”

“I didn’t do it! Though it’s genius, I have to admit.”

The giant son of a bitch was actually grinning. “Well who else could it have been, Sammy?” Dean’s voice raised as he went on until he was nearly shouting. “We’re in the middle of a prank war, there’s friggin Lake Superior between me and my coffee, and you’re going with ‘I didn’t do it?’ Who the hell else could it have been, Sam?”

Lucifer’s voice came from the doorway behind them. “What’s all the ruckus, fellas?”

Dean jabbed a finger in the air at Lucifer. “You!”

“What, me?” Even with Cas’s face, Lucifer didn’t look remotely contrite or innocent.

Dean pivoted his outstretched finger toward the Great Flood waiting to happen. “You did this. Use your mojo and clean it up!”

Lucifer flashed a toothy grin. “Hmm, nope,” he sang and actually skipped out of the freaking kitchen.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean swore. The brothers stared at the forest of water glasses, hands on their hips as they worked out a plan of attack. Dean snapped his fingers. “I got it! Playing cards. I saw it on YouTube.”

Sam rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Right. Because everything on the Internet is true.”

Dean blinked up at his brother. “Exactly.” He fished around various drawers until he found an old deck of cards. “Aha! Now, we just slip one under the glass and--” splash. Water poured onto the counter, spilling over into the pockets of Dean’s robe and into his slippers. “Son of a bitch.”

“Here, let me try it,” Sam said, taking a card from a wet and disappointed Dean, pushing him gently out of the way. “I think you lifted the glass to high. You’ve got to keep the rim of the glass below the meniscus.” He bent over the counter to get close to a glass. Nose just inches from it, Sam gingerly lifted the glass just a hair to slide the card under. The failure was complete and spectacular, leaving Sam with wet hair and pants.

Dean doubled over with laughter and Sam shot him a bitch face, shoulders slumping in defeat. “Okay, let me try it again,” Dean said after he pulled himself together. This time he tried to wiggle the card under the glass without lifting it. The resulting failure was particularly epic. Not only did the glass Dean tried to turn over spill, but the force of the water was sufficient to break the seal on the counter with several other glasses, causing them spill. It set off a chain reaction that Dean and Sam watched helplessly. Sam hung his head as if all his hopes and dreams were crushed. Dean’s hopes and dreams of getting his coffee in peace were crushed.

 

***

 

It had taken almost an hour for Sam and Dean to mop up all the water in the kitchen, even working together. After it was done, Dean finally got his coffee and a dry change of clothes. He’d just rinsed his mug out in the sink when he noticed a tray of caramel apples on the counter. He shrugged and grabbed one, taking a big bite. He immediately spit it back out, eyes burning and tearing. He’d just chomped right through a friggin onion. “This is why I don’t eat apples,” he muttered.

“Aw, what’s the matter, Dean?” Lucifer said from the doorway as if he’d just appeared there, which technically he could have. “Don’t like my cooking?”

Dean shot Lucifer a death glare and dumped the entire tray of abominations into the trash without breaking eye contact. “Eat me.”

Lucifer tsked. “I know I look like Castiel right now, but he’s not here at the moment. Don’t you think that’s a conversation you two should have in private?”

It was only by a fluke of improbable self control that Dean didn’t punch Lucifer right in Cas’s face.

 

***

 

Later that morning, Sam opened his laptop and stared in abject horror at the computer. A veritable garden of green clovers grew between the keys. “What the--.”

Lucifer’s voice echoed from somewhere else in the bunker, “You’ll never get me Lucky Charms!”

 

***

 

“Dude, he has to be stopped,” Dean said, sinking into the chair across from Sam.

Sam leaned forward across the table. “Tell me about it. He hung eighty-four hot dogs from the ceiling of my room with fishing line.”

Dean scrunched up his nose in disgust. “Why?”

His brother just shrugged helplessly. “No clue, but they were cooked and I don't think I'll ever get the grease out of the grout, so my room smells like a wiener hut.”

“Were they beef hotdogs?” Dean asked, smirking and obviously proud of himself. Sam shot him a bitch face and stormed off.

 

***

 

“Oh, for the love of me!” Chuck's voice rang through the war room. With a flash of will, Dean, Sam, and Lucifer appeared across the table from him. The Winchesters looked startled. Lucifer looked like he was trying to appear innocent which of course only made him look more guilty.

Chuck stalked slowly around the table toward his eldest son, wrath carefully in check. “Did you do this?” he demanded and glared up at Lucifer.

In response, he crossed his arms defiantly over Castiel's chest and met Chuck's stare. “Do what?”

Chuck turned his World's Greatest Dad mug over on the table and a blob of mug-shaped brown Jello slid out and into the tabletop with a dull plop. Lucifer's face broke and he sputtered out a laugh. Chuck snapped his fingers and Lucifer's mouth sealed into a hard, immovable line. Chuck angled his index finger at the three before him with a warning glare. “This ends now. You don't mess with a man's coffee, you just don't!” He shouted and stormed off.

 


End file.
